


The Life You Save May Be Your Own

by Telanu



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tales, Rape, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telanu/pseuds/Telanu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel-of-sorts to Hayseed's story "More Things In Heaven and Earth." Written with her permission--nay, encouragement. Read that first, or this will make no sense. After that story's events are over, Gareth comes to see Miranda in Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Life You Save May Be Your Own

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [More Things In Heaven and Earth](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/20826) by Hayseed. 



> Thanks so much to Hayseed for letting me play in her wonderful, but terrifying universe!

Well now, isn't this a shame?

After all you've been through, all she did for you, the death she almost died for you…after all this, you still watch her retreating back and call her a traitor.

Of course, you remember none of her sacrifices. I made sure of that. But I never promised Andrea Sachs that it would be forever. I never make those sorts of promises. Promises are binding--far more in my world than in yours.

I don't like you.

But I can feel sorry for you. You were screwed from the start. From the very moment Lyra sat down in front of you wearing the face and the smile of Andrea Sachs, peeling your mind like a grape, offering you something you wanted beyond want, in fact, wanted so much that the word "want" is an insulting understatement…your doom was sealed very tightly from that moment, wasn't it?

And I do like Andrea Sachs, in spite of her rudeness. (Really, it is not polite to scream at someone and call them hideous. Was she raised in a barn?) I can certainly understand her appeal to someone like you--a fresh, beautiful thing like and unlike yourself. A tall glass of cool water, right? Something like that. And your instincts were good. She was an excellent choice. Without understanding how you felt for her, how deeply you cared--or, for that matter, how deeply she did--she still followed you into hell with no promise of safety, no guarantee of return or even of your gratitude. Your desire brought you low; her love lifted you back up. Not that it was enough in the end. It never is, not in real life. Only in stories.

That's something else I noticed: you only cracked after she rescued you. That's common of trauma survivors, they say. They hold themselves together, keeping removed from it all until the crisis is over, and then they fall apart. Fair enough.

But you didn't hold it together. You didn't stay removed from it all. You fought tooth and nail every moment you were conscious, every moment you were free from Lyra's poisonous, pacifying enchantment. You never once lay back and thought of your worthless magazine, never tried to withdraw inside your own mind, never did anything but make it much harder and bloodier than it had to be. You screamed, cursed and begged right on schedule, and you never stopped trying to escape.

The withdrawal came later. After she saved you.

Yes. That's what nearly killed you, wasn't it? You couldn't do it yourself. You had to be rescued, hauled away like a fainting princess. Through no fault of your own, of course. It was really cute whenever you tried to run away, don't get me wrong--like a hamster running on a wheel, or a monkey learning to eat with a spoon, or some appealing combination of both--but you never had a prayer of succeeding. Though I am sure you never accepted, could never accept that. Not you. And the worst of all: you were saved by the very one you had thought to protect, to shield from harm.

Goodness. That's dreadful. I'm chuckling just thinking about it.

And yet, some part of you hasn't forgotten everything. Well, maybe "forget" isn't the word I want. I rearranged everything, didn't I? I made it so that it never happened at all in your human world, and you can't remember what never even happened. But your mind knows that something is wrong. You do have good instincts. And you don't have the good sense to leave well enough alone. You're a child picking at a scab. You idiot creature, don't you know that you don't want to understand the truth? That was the whole point of my final gift to Andrea Sachs.

It was a pretty twisted gift, as gifts go, since it involved taking away something she wanted. She had you, you know. You were hers. Your well-being, what was left of it, depended entirely on her. You belonged to her, and part of her found that satisfying. But the greater part of her loved you, and let you go.

Would you have done the same, I wonder? If I offered Andrea Sachs to you on a silver platter right now--a damaged, battered Andrea Sachs who could never leave you, could not live without you--would you jump at the chance to take her? I'm really not sure. There's more than a little bit of Lyra-ness about you, after all. That's what attracted her to you. I can easily see you with a pretty slave at your feet, bound to you with a silver chain. There is more than one kind of slave, and there are a thousand kinds of chains. That would suit you just fine, wouldn't it?

But Andrea Sachs didn't want that kind of submission from you. She was nauseatingly selfless. In fact, if I remember correctly, she said something that was downright adorable. What was it? Oh. Right. _"Please, Miranda, remember that I'll always save you. Always."_

You didn't remember it, of course. That was the whole point, which she conveniently forgot in a spasm of sentimentality. Well, that's who she is, and we just can't change her, now can we? But something about it obviously stuck with you: her promise of fidelity, of protection, of pure love. There is no other explanation for how you feel right now. Your husband left you, and it hurt. But Andrea Sachs walks away and suddenly this horrible, gaping pit opens up inside you and tells you that it's all wrong, that this isn't the way it's supposed to go, that the girl, _your girl_ , is supposed to remain by your side, always, and take care of…things. That you are not, in fact, entirely self-sufficient.

No wonder you're shattered now. And you were so triumphant only a few minutes ago! Showing off for her with your little coup de grace, your hat trick that makes you more like Lyra--and like me--than you will ever know. You were proud as any peacock before a drab little hen. And now you find out the truth. She's not impressed. She thinks you're utterly awful. Anyone in your shoes would be upset. And in these circumstances, even you can bend your infernal pride enough to call her, to try to bring her back to you.

Oh, she's picking up the phone. Looking at the display. Maybe she'll listen to reason, maybe--whoops! Right into the fountain. Those things are expensive, aren't they?

She's being a brat, I admit. Irresponsible, impulsive, childish. A terrible employee. But I do like her. And you owe her more, far more than you will ever know. So this urge you have--this urge to strike out and destroy someone who has just broken your heart--I'll have to deal with. Perhaps then I will feel shut of Andrea Sachs. Maybe then the memory of her devotion and sacrifice will stop pestering me. She did not change me. That is not possible. I do not change. But I do feel a certain interest in her, a certain…obligation…to look after her welfare just once more. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown, and all that. And she did put this crown on my head, or as good as.

You go through the motions of your day with a heavy heart. You would much rather be powered by your indignation, would rather let your fury carry you along with a burst of energy until nightfall, but it doesn't work that way, not today. Today you trudge through the next few hours of your vanishingly short life. You return to your hotel in the evening, call your husband, try to patch things up again. But apparently he's got good instincts too. He knows you don't love him, and he's having none of it. Smart fellow.

You've had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. You're exhausted. But you've always slept well--like Lyra, you've never found your crown to be particularly heavy--and you are certain that after a good night's rest, you will be ready to face the new day. That's how it always goes. You certainly need that rest, need the chance to recoup your strength. You've just lost something incredibly important and beautiful. You need time to recover.

Tonight, I send you the worst nightmare you have ever known.

 

* * *

 

_"It tried to run away again," Lyra coos into her ear. Miranda is chained, spread-eagle and face down, on the ground. "What a naughty thing it is."_

_Miranda tries not to whimper, tries not to cry. She thought she'd been so close, and it turns out it was just another dead-end, another cul-de-sac, another thorny trap. She is beginning to believe there might never be a way out of here. But she can't think like that, or she'll lose her mind completely. No, she will escape. She will return to her life. She will see her children again. There is a way out. There was a way in, so there is a way out. That's all that makes sense. That's all--_

_"I think we'll try something a little different today," Lyra says._

_Miranda feels something cool and round pressing at the entrance to her vagina. It feels fragile. Like it might break. Not like glass, exactly--more like--_

_"It's an egg," Lyra tells her pleasantly. "One that is very, very close to hatching." She pushes the widest part of the egg inside Miranda, who hisses in pain before she can stop herself. Lyra leaves the egg like that for another moment or so, before popping it all the way inside. It isn't big--smaller than a chicken egg--but it hurts all the same. And it's, it's…_

_Is it moving?_

_"It's a pixie egg," Lyra says. "Your kind have funny ideas about pixies. Like you have about everything. You think they're cute and sweet. But they're not." She taps her fingertips playfully at the base of Miranda's spine. "Mainly they're hungry. From the very moment they're born. And from the very moment they're born, they have sharp teeth."_

_Miranda freezes. Seeing this, Lyra laughs._

_"Can you feel it?" she asks. Miranda can, now. She knows what it is. She can feel the rattle, the horrible shifting, inside her own body. "Any moment, it will hatch. The heat from your body is encouraging it, bringing it out of its shell. And then it will want to feed. Right away."_

_"No," Miranda says, and tries to come up with something else, but the only thing she can say is "no," over and over again. She has to be more creative--Lyra hates the word 'no'--_

_"It'll start with your cunt, of course," Lyra says, sounding downright chipper. "Too bad, really. I like your cunt. But I suppose it can't be helped, since you're so naughty. By the time it eats its way through your intestines and up to your stomach, you probably won't be thinking about all the sex you'll never have again. You'll just be hoping it reaches your heart as soon as possible. I will make sure you don't lose consciousness, never fear."_

_"OhGodPLEASE!" Miranda finally shrieks._

_"Please what?" Lyra asks, her voice going a little bit hard. Miranda feels the cracking of the egg--the outer shell, the creature straining against the membranes beneath--she imagines she can feel little hands, already searching, clawing--_

_"Please what?" Lyra repeats. "'Please, mistress, forgive me, I will never disobey you again'? Please that?"_

_"Yes!" Miranda screams. Lyra much prefers 'yes' to 'no.' "Yes!"_

_"Don't move too much," Lyra cautions her, enjoying herself hugely. "Above all, keep your legs still. And don't…squeeze." Miranda turns her head so that her nose is rubbing into the dirt and sobs. "You want me to take it out?"_

_"Yes! Please! Yes!"_

_"Look at me first," Lyra says._

_Miranda opens her eyes and looks at teeth and eyes and more teeth and claws and more teeth, endless rows of slavering, bloody TEETH…_

_"Do you prefer me or the pixie?" Lyra asks. "Choose quickly." The egg shifts and heaves inside Miranda._

_"Choose," Lyra says again._

 

* * *

 

When you wake up, you're tangled in your covers and scrambling wildly for escape. In fact, you smack yourself in the nose, and that's what wakes you. Tsk. Much too soon.

You don't throw up, but you definitely teeter on the verge of being sick in your bed. You can't seem to stop shaking. Your face is as grey--oh, excuse me, as 'elegantly silver'--as your hair. You are soaked through with sweat. Thought you felt bad this afternoon, eh? Have a little more.

Back down you go.

 

* * *

 

_A twisted, broken little body lies in front of Miranda, not two inches from her nose, looking back at her with glassy, empty eyes. Lyra had broken its neck after it hatched--in her hand, not in Miranda's vagina--and had dropped the corpse in front of her, as Miranda's reward for being such a good girl and for begging so nicely._

_"You can even stay here while I throw my party tonight," she says. "But maybe I'll bring you a present. Gareth's going to come. He thinks he's so subtle--but I do wonder if he won't bring along a surprise guest. That should be fun. It's just a supposition on my part, of course…"_

_Miranda does not care and cannot speak. She gulps and tries not to vomit, or choke on the dirt of the ground._

_"I wonder if I will finally meet Andrea Sachs tonight," Lyra says._

Then _Miranda moves. She is still chained to the ground, but she lifts her head, cranes it up to see Lyra watching her with eyes that are both amused and jealous._

_"He thinks she's his secret weapon," Lyra says. "How do you put it? His ace in the hole. He saved her the last time just for this, I'm sure." Miranda begins to shake. Lyra had told her all about the last time. And about how she was going to try again, to hound Andrea to death, and Miranda had realized she had to escape, to warn her, because no amount of begging or pleading would--_

_"The look in your eyes makes me sick," Lyra says. "If Andrea Sachs comes--when Andrea Sachs comes--I will kill her. In front of you, pet. Do you understand?"_

_Miranda understands. She understands perfectly well. And she knows that once again she will break all the promises she made so fervently only a few moments ago._

_Andrea cannot come here. She must not come here. If Miranda gets free, then Andrea will have no need to come here. Miranda must protect her. She'd been weak--she'd begged for the girl's help--stupid, pathetic--but she hadn't known, how could she have known the danger, the depth and power of Lyra's anger? If only she'd known, she never would have--never--_

 

* * *

 

Of course. You just keep telling yourself that. I watch you twist and writhe in the bed for a few more moments, and then release my hold on you. You wake with a little cry of terror and gratitude, and yet again, I watch you try to recover. It takes longer this time. The second half of your dream terrified you far more than the first. Interesting.

Actually, you know what? I would have expected as much. Lyra was always enthusiastic in her method of punishment, but she did lack originality. A live egg up your twat? Grotesque, but hardly subtle. Showing you her true face, which you feared so much? Well, it worked, but surely it got dull after the first ten times or so. Playing on your fear for Andrea Sachs's safety? That's a little better, but it still lacks imagination, lacks spark. If it had been me…

Not that it was. But if it had been me, I might have dug a little deeper. Lyra got the dirt on you, but I would have mined far below that. I might have, for example, exposed your fear of failure. Your fear of abandonment. After all, you work so hard, you try so hard to be self-sufficient--isn't that because you know that nobody else will ever be there for you, that nobody will look out for you but yourself? What in your past--your childhood, I expect, the formative years--has led you to this sure and unwavering knowledge, this distrust of anyone who might try to help you out of unselfish motives? I wonder. I would have found out. And then I would have shown you, and you would never have been able to look away from it again.

In fact, I might have shown you the very scene you just suffered through in real life: Andrea Sachs walking away from you. The girl who loves you so much, who went to hell and back for you, who would do it again if she had to--even she can't bear to stick around, to stay by your side. No one can. Ouch. Stings a bit, does it?

But I did none of those things, and I won't now. I'm not Lyra, and I'll never send you this dream again, or any other like it. You are safe from that. But you've had the dream, so now it's rattling around in your subconscious of its own accord. I'm sure you'll see it again sometime. But not because of me. I can be kind, when it suits me.

Here you are, alone, abandoned, and humbled to dust. Not broken. No, it took a lot more than a few nightmares to break you. But now, in this moment, you are as weak as you can ever remember being. If only she were here! She understands you---and her warm smile, her kind eyes--everything you want so much, want beyond want, "want" isn't even the right word--

No. It's not mere want, not mere desire, that you feel for her, is it? I watch you realize it. I watch you understand; I watch your eyes go very wide.

Now you are ready. Now is the time. This feeling will stick with you, will take root in your mind. How you grieve her loss, but how you could never wish her harm: how, against all logic and sense, you want to help her, protect her. You will not reach out and snuff her fledgling career. You love her, and you will let her go. Good for you.

And then, when you do that--when you have been a good girl--you will get your reward. I'll arrange something. Some chance meeting, when the moment is right. And that's all I'll have to do. I am not like Lyra; I do not rob creatures of their free will. You'll take it from there. I can tell.

All you need to do is look her in the eye, see her face, see her smile. And then, for the first time since this afternoon, you will feel warm. You will feel happy. You will feel whole. You will even smile. And you'll realize that you need more of that. You need her back in your life.

And you'll do something about it. That is one thing I like about you: you're a go-getter. For better or for worse, you will pursue your girl until you have her. I have the utmost faith in you, Miranda Priestly, on that count.

You will save yourself. It's what you do best.

**FIN.**


End file.
